


Victory

by underthenorthstar



Series: Tumblr Fics [3]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Blood, Death, F/M, Sexual Content, Voyeurism, and a death kink, and a voyeurism kink, battlefield sex, descriptions of death and gore, good gravy i'm horrible, having sex around dying people, ivar has a blood kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 15:27:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10856796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underthenorthstar/pseuds/underthenorthstar
Summary: Ivar takes his lady on the battlefield post victory.TW: blood, death, sex around blood and death, voyeurism, mild sexual content





	Victory

The land runs red with blood.

He sits atop his chariot, surveying the carnage laid out before him. Bodies litter the field, carrion birds already gorging themselves on their prepared feast. He inhales deeply, letting the stench of decay and death fill his lungs. The cries of the dying echo in his ears. Such sweet, sweet music. The only sound he loves more is the sound of his name on your lips.

You. His fierce, fearless shieldmaiden. His goddess of war and destruction. Only you understand his lusts and desires, his hunger for blood and chaos. He scans the horizon for your form, and his heart gives a mighty thump within his chest when he finds you.

He watches you pick your way across the field, dragging your tainted sword behind you. Your braided hair has come undone, your shield is splintered and you are covered in blood. He thinks you have never looked more terrifying or more beautiful. A true wild woman, the incarnation of death herself.

He calls your name, a clear sound over the groans of the dying. Your eyes find his, and a hungry smile spreads across your face. Your teeth are stained red, and he longs to plunge his tongue into your mouth and lick them all clean.

You make your way to his chariot, and with each step he finds himself growing more eager for you. He wants to lay you down amongst the bodies and make you scream his name. He wants to soak up all the blood caked to your skin, wants to taste the sweet tang of victory on your tongue. He wants to feel so, so alive amidst all this death. His very bones cry out for it.

You must see it on his face, for you give him a wicked look and toss away your sword and shield. You fall to your knees on the ground, hands spread outwards as if you are begging. Begging for him, begging for what only he can give you. You open your crimson stained lips and only one word tumbles out.

“Please.”

It is all he needs to hear.

He crawls over the bodies, slithering like a serpent through the mud. The blood thrums rapidly in his veins. He watches you as he moves, watches your pupils devour the color of your eyes, watches the flush of desire creep up your neck. He knows you love him like this, all filthy and covered in gore, drunk on the rush of killing. He knows in this moment you want him to cover your body with his, to fall together in a sticky heap of blood and sweat and arousal. And he is desperate to grant you your wish.

He reaches your kneeling figure, one hand coming to rest on your neck, feeling the beat of your pulse beneath his fingers. Alive, whole, still his. He squeezes gently and shudders at the soft moan that slips from you. He stretches his other hand, one grimy finger to running reverently across your bottom lip. Your tongue darts out to lick the blood crusted along the tip, and everything that holds him together snaps.

It’s a war of tongues and teeth, of grasping hands and scratching nails. There is no time nor place for softness or loving touches; this moment is for ferocity and vitality, for feeling everything there is to feel in this earthly flesh. His every sense is heightened, every touch and every kiss threatens to burn him from the inside out. You are perfect beneath him, groping and gasping and whimpering until he can barely hold himself together.

He’s fast and ruthless, a perfect mimicry of how he moves in battle. You match him in every movement, a dance you have honed over the time you have shared together. He does not care if anyone hears or sees. In fact, he wants them to. He wants the dying men around him to see the ones who have struck them down, twisted together like vines on a branch. He wants them to hear your screams, for them to know that they are leaving this world while he is still enjoying it. Their enemy has conquered them, and now he receives his prize.

It does not take long. One last bruising kiss, one final dig of your nails into his shoulders and he’s roaring, shouting out his triumph across the desolate wasteland. Your cries mingle with his, and the whole earth seems to shake with the force of it.

He catches his breath, letting you cradle him against you as he laps lazily at the blood spattered across your neck. He has never felt more complete, never felt more perfectly balanced. It is all his favourite things at once: glory, death, sex and you. It is the sweetest victory he can imagine.

So when you give birth to his firstborn son nine months later, he knows exactly what to name him.

“Sigtrygg. Our trusted victory.”


End file.
